It took me exactly two pages to become engrossed in Michelle McNamara’s self-described “obsessive search for the Golden State Killer.” But that was no surprise. Given my fascination with true crime, my love for the My Favorite Murder podcast (which introduced me to said fascination and the GSK in general), my appreciation for the comedian Patton Oswalt (the author’s widower), and the recent capture of Joseph James DeAngelo—the monster who terrorized California as the Visalia Ransacker, the East Area Rapist, and the Original Night Stalker between April 1974 and May 1986—there was no question of whether I would love this book.

What I was not expecting was Michelle. Friggen. McNamara. Her mastery of language and the musicality with which she writes terrible and unfathomable things is incredible. Truly. I often had to stop and re-read passages just so I could appreciate how beautifully written they were, despite the content. I can’t gush about her enough, so I’ll just show you with a relatively mild but wildly evocative passage—

Excerpted from the chapter entitled “Goleta, 1979”:

Cheri watched the city swallow her daughter and worried. Santa Barbara beguiled. It deceived. The promise of romance reigned, an the potential for danger was obscured. After a nineteen-second earthquake shattered much of downtown Santa Barbara in 1925, the city was rebuilt in a unified Spanish Colonial style—white plaster walls, low-pitched red tile roofs, wrought iron. Preservation-minded civic leaders continued to keep buildings low and billboards out. There was a gentle small-town feel to the place. Every day for thirty-two years, a Greek immigrant, “the popcorn man,” sold pinwheels and popcorn from his station wagon at the foot of Stearns Wharf. The smell of night-blossoming jasmine drifted in through open windows on hot evenings. The roar of the ocean rocked people to sleep.

But instability lurked. A raggedy undercurrent oiled. The recession had gutted a lot of downtown businesses. There was not yet and open-container law on lower State Street; at night weaving drunks shouted at each other between breaks to piss and puke. The music clubs were changing. Folk and disco were out, replaced by angrier punk. The local papers were reporting that an anonymous male caller was telling children ages eleven to fifteen who answered the phone that they were going to die. Another caller, maybe the same man, was telling women that he’d hurt their husbands if they didn’t comply with his demands. Local cops nicknamed the unidentified creep “our breather.”

[. . .]

Santa Barbara’s magenta bougainvillea could distract you from its hairline cracks. Cheri hoped no harm would come to Debbi out there. Every mother’s brain cycles through the litany of terrible things that might befall her child. Rarely does the reverse occur. Why should it? Especially for teenagers, who between seeing their parents as God and then as human view them temporarily as an obstacle, a particularly cumbersome door that won’t quite budge.

No, it was Debbi who was . . . “at risk.” The story rarely ends well for the beautiful teenage runaway. This time it did.

Not being home saved Debbi Domingo’s life.

SEE?! What did I just say?

I did not read this book as part of a challenge or book club. I read this book because I could not wait to get my hands on it. Michelle’s untimely passing meant that her story was left unfinished, and her personal mission to find the GSK was unrealized. Luckily though, she had not been working alone. The men who took up the gauntlet to finish I’ll Be Gone in the Dark gave a valiant effort—one that reads nothing like Michelle’s voice, thereby honouring the work that she had completed by ensuring it would outshine their own submission. And while I would have much preferred to read a full account of how she lived to track down the monster that occupied her waking hours as well as her nightmares, Paul Haynes and Billy Jensen deserve much praise for finishing her book so that her achievement could be brought into the light where we can sing high its praises.

And, of course, shout out to The Man Paul Holes (#HotforHoles) and everyone involved in the impressive capture of DeAngelo. To quote Michelle: “This is how it ends for you.”

This short novel was the first work published by French author Françoise Sagan. She was eighteen, and this detestable story featuring a detestable teenage child was (apparently) based on her own experiences.

Seventeen-year-old Cécile is spoiled, demanding, ungrateful, careless, lazy, and self-absorbed—a true enfant terrible. I genuinely dislike her. And yet, I can whole-heartedly relate to her. Not to the way she puts her own happiness and comforts above all else and others, or how she sabotages her doting father’s relationships to suit her own motives, or the carefree summer days she spends on the beach and in the water at a gorgeous French villa, torturing a law student with her sexual awakening, mind you. To those points I certainly cannot relate. But to her teenage woe, the direness of her self-perceived situation, and the strength of her emotions (however misguided they may be)? As a woman who was once just a fledgling—I unfortunately can. I wish I couldn’t. But, having been a child herself when she wrote Cécile, François managed to perfectly capture the best and worst things about being a teenaged girl: everything is raw and urgent and absolutely critical.

So yes, I can recognize pieces of myself in the horrible Cécile. I can also recognize that this novella of only 130 pages is brilliantly and beautifully written. And, despite Cécile—and perhaps even François—I really loved it. Thank you for the recommendation, Lara.

I keep a book journal. In it, I keep track of everything I read, the dates on which I cracked it open and slammed it shut, give it a rating out of five stars, and write a few lines. It was my blog before I started my blog. I read The Hate U Give in one day last September, and though I didn’t immediately share my thoughts with you lovely people, I did write three pages worth of notes in my little red “What I Read Journal.” Here’s what I thought then, and still do now:

Maybe it’s because I’ve just read The Autobiography of Malcolm X, or because I’ve recently come to enjoy and appreciate the music of NWA, or because of everything happening in the US right now, but I feel like all of these things and more have converged so that when I did read this incredible book, I would have better context and the message might ring louder and truer. This novel deserves to be read by everyone. Forever. Thomas did a remarkable job depicting all sides of the conflict—victims, cops, white friends, black culture . . . this is not a one-sided manifesto—it is an important commentary on violence, racism, the cultural divide, community, friendship, and family and so much more. It’s shocking and engrossing and is really about how, if you want change, you have to speak up for yourself and for what you believe in; you have to fight against those who oppress you and fight even harder against your own fears. This book is frustrating, and heartbreaking, and frighteningly like real life, but it is funny, and hopeful, and a damn. good. book.

“Will surely become one of the classics in American autobiography.” —John William Ward, historian, 1967

“A mesmerizing page-turner.” —Variety, 1992

“Required reading.” —TIME, 1998

It’s so celebrated that I didn’t know how to write anything that a) would do it any justice, and b) would not make me look like an ass. I still don’t. But what I do know is that getting to read this book was absolutely worth my process of stealing it from my hometown library, carting it half way across the country, getting snitched on by my mother, and subsequently scolded by my librarian (and one-time babysitter). It’s important for a reason. Malcolm X was a truly remarkable man and, though I don’t agree with much of what he preached for most of his career—the Nation of Islam is a whole other kettle of fish that I can’t even pretend to understand—there are some extremely powerful messages to be found in his life story and lessons to be learned from the life (or lives) that he lived. I am glad I read it. You should, too.

It’s been a hot minute, friends, and I just want to start off by saying HAPPY NEW YEAR / 30th BIRTHDAY TO ME / VALENTINE’S DAY / ST PATRICK’S DAY / EASTER / SPRING! How the heck are ya? I missed you!

As you may or (more likely) may not have noticed, I failed at my 2017 book challenge. I failed hard, people. Not only did I not complete the totally doable list of 26 books, I also didn’t post (or even write) reviews for the majority of the books that I did read, AND I didn’t finish reading an embarrassing number of the books that I started to read. So yeah. Not great. But we’re well into 2018 and I’m back, Baby! What’s more: I HAVE been reading and I CAN do better . . . or at the very least I can update my blog. So, coming up:

The Autobiography of Malcom X as told to Alex Haley

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan

Call of the Wild by Jack London

Judging a Book by Its Lover by Lauren Leto

The Wonder by Emma Donoghue

The Revenant by Michael Punke

Girl at War by Sara Nović

Etta and Otto and Russel and James by Emma Hooper

One Day Closer by Lorinda Stewart

Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs

And now, for my next trick paragraph, I can tell you that in 2018, instead of tackling another challenge with my dear friend Rosie, I decided to join not one but two book clubs (and—unrelated, but a super fun time nonetheless—a choir) with another dear friend, Jessica. So I’ll have to review those, too:

A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman

The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty

The Ragged Company by Richard Wagamese

Next Year for Sure by Zoey Leigh Peterson

The Alice Network by Kate Quinn

Furthermore, because I’m a rebel, I think I can read whatever the heck I want to read whenever the heck I want to read it, whether it’s on a list or not. So you’ll be getting reviews for these, as well:

Blameless by Gail Carriger

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrille Zevin

I Can’t Make This Up by Kevin Hart with Neil Strauss

Astray by Emma Donoghue

Finally (thanks for sticking with me, folks), as you may know, I don’t review books that I’ve read for work, but I do like to list them to subtly suggest ya’ll read them, too. So if you want to know what we’ve been working on, check out this page.

The boy came to believe that going west was more than just a fancy for someplace new. He came to see it as a part of his soul, a missing piece that could only be made whole on some far-off mountain or plain.